and the kilt trip

Our Story

Read the other chapters here.

December 24, 2008

Everything is made a miracle by the fact of their togetherness. The banalities—something spiritual.


The way Jamie does their laundry. How his diligence for clean, crisp folds never extends to removing the drier sheets, tangled amongst the clothes. Claire is forever finding them in the armpits of her sweaters, or in the rolled cuffs of her jeans when she dresses in the morning. A waft of detergent—and of her husband—as a white sheet drifts down, brushing her calf like a beloved’s hand. (Familiar; intimate.)

And the way Claire knows terms like methylprednisolone, but cannot win a single game of Scrabble. Rainy days spent brooding over the board, Jamie trying to coax Triple Word scores from her Z’s and Q’s and X’s. “I reckon it’d be quixotic to think the weather will clear for a picnic?” he asks (hints), peeking at her tiles. 

More miracles, then: the way her eyes light up. The kisses she will give him for this small act of kindness. Quixotic written by her lapping tongue, and poppies left to bloom on his neck. (They will make the neighbors blush.)

Their home, too, is another miracle, with its wainscoting and butter-leather and Persian rugs. No longer must they suffer the grimy box of their mid-20’s, or the lonely echoes of their own respective homes. Boston and Scotland have been shed like old skins, or if not shed, then at least peeled to the thinnest films. 

Instead there is this house and Jamie’s footsteps in the study, and the pour of Claire’s nightly glass of milk. North Carolina lies just beyond the windows, a wild glory whose trees lean close, listening. (Even the universe has grown green-bright with envy, wants to be a part of Jamie and Claire’s love.)

And just last week, they installed heated floors and called a plumber to insulate the pipes. So now: socks peeled off with glee, breakfasts of mouths that taste like sleep and last night’s Colgate. The coffee is brewed too long and the pancakes are left on the griddle, and they burn (and burn and burn).

Miracles, all.

But even so, there is one miracle that has not come. Their hope for it—the fervency, the sheer constancy of the thing—is shadowed by a fear similar to Claire’s wedding-day stomach. Lying side by side in bed, they worry:

What if it never happens? What if it does?

(A baby.)

“We’re so old,” Claire jokes one afternoon, a few weeks into 40. She is walking the tight-rope of Jamie’s spine, trying to usher his stiffness to the surface and away. She remembers her splintered, little-girl feet—dancing in 1973—as she tip-toes up and down, up and down her husband’s back.

Though this ground is more uneven than her childhood porch, she prefers it. No sneaky shards to puncture her once-tender skin. Jamie’s are deltoids here and his trapezius there—a special comfort in her favorite pearl of his vertebrae. She hunts for it, feels its safe rub against her sole, and holds back a sigh. (Suddenly, this seems like the most precious gift, and she wishes, more than ever, that she could offer her own back to two tiny, wobbling feet.)  

“Aye, we’re fossils.”

“You could dig us up and brush the dust off,” Claire says, and so Jamie reaches back, swipes his index finger along her shin and licks it. “What would you do if you found my bones? You’re just walking along one day, kilt swinging, and you trip right over my fibula?”

“I’d build a home out of you,” Jamie says immediately. “I’d sleep on yer pelvis.”

“Awfully uncomfortable, pelvises. You’d have more back problems than you do now.”

“But that’s what yer fibulas are for, see. I’d save them for a cane and fuse ‘em together. I think it’d be nice. Always having you to lean on.” Jamie groans when she tuns around; Claire’s heels digging in and scooping out his pain. “But that’s assuming you die before I do, Sassenach. Maybe I’ll be the one who starts to go first.”

“I bloody well hope not. That’d be unbearable.”

“But no’ impossible. Me, wearing diapers at age 70…D’ye think you could ye wipe my arse, and still love me afterwards?”

“Darling, I can’t imagine a higher honor than wiping your ‘arse’ for you.” 

She is smiling—but only just—as she steps down to lay herself across his body, to shield the life of him. 

“And what about you? Will you still love me when I’m blind? I’ll have to get glasses—those big, alien things that make people look like startled bugs or arctic explorers. Like Murdina wears.”

“You’d look verra cute as a spectacled, startled bug, Sassenach.”

“But not an arctic explorer?”

“I’d prefer you as a wee crawlie inside my shirt.”

Claire snorts (a vestige of her mother there, in that unchecked happiness), then adds, “And my memory! Sheesh. A few years, and that’ll be shot straight to hell. Might even forget your name one day. Jack Fraser? Jay Fraser? ‘Ringo Starr, is that you?’ It’ll all be very embarrassing, so please just play along and pretend it’s endearing.”

“Dinna be silly,” Jamie says. “There’s no forgetting me or you.”

(A shame his body is so stiff. More feeling in his back, and he would sense the creep of a premonitory chill. See a far-off but certain future where he must pause, think slowly, in order to make a wife out of the woman next to him. A stranger to him, suddenly, until she reintroduces herself. Jamie, it’s me, it’s me.)

“I suppose you’re right,” she says. “We’re rather stuck with each other, aren’t we?”

Jamie hears the unspoken longing in her words, and he feels it too, somewhere deep in his chest. Let it be this way forever. (Together, beyond death, inside a pair of slanted amber eyes.)

“I meant my vows when I said them, Sassenach. ‘In diapers and dementia…’”

“Oh, is that how it goes?”

“Aye, the Catholics have always said it so.”

“Have I told you that I’m so glad to be stuck with you again? You. Ringo. My two-times-over husband.”

Jamie laughs, rolling over beneath her so that they’re side by side, face to face. Elbows propping heads; Claire’s right leg, straddling. She moves closer, extending her hips—oh, to live there in that cocoon of bone!—and the last of Jamie’s tension loosens, his body freed.

“So nice ye had to do it twice?”

“Better than nice,” she whispers. “Perfect.”

(No matter what, he will always remember this. How two is so much greater than one.)

But while Jamie and Claire joke about their ages, they both know that time is running out. Their baby, they realize, would be a different miracle from all the others—would eclipse even those babies born from more youthful, hospitable insides. And though they have not sat down and spoken plainly as they once did (I want to have a baby), their needing rings throughout the house, spells itself out on the Scrabble board. A baby. Let’s have a baby.

There is an added sense of responsibility to their lovemaking now, which is no less passionate but simply filled with extra care. As if the baby teeters on some fragile precipice, and needs only their encouragement to find its will to live.

Claire has taken multiple tests, all negative, over the past several months. Each time she throws a stick into the waste bin, she feels their chances slipping through her fingers, joining the pile of Q-Tips, wrappers, and tissues soaked in her frustration. She wads up toilet paper shrouds and covers the oval screens, pretending there was no test, no probability lost with the pronouncement of that one thin line.

This time is different though; Claire knows it. It is after Christmas Eve mass, 11:30PM, and she is pacing in the bathroom. Claire has been waiting all day for her courage, to be able to lock the door, hold a seventh stick, and see if her instincts have any kicking, doughy legs. She retrieves the pink box from the cupboard and sits on the toilet. Holds her breath until black sparks are in her eyes.

Tonight, she thinks, is a night for miracles.

living with the vamps (the camps)

hmm idk man it was 1am and i wrote this and this is basically what i imagine living with the vamps would eventually turn into (disclaimer: this is probably the dumbest piece of writing i’ve ever written whoo hoo)

  • “guys can you unpack your suitcases soon you’ve been home for like a week now”
  • “that doesn’t mean dump your clothes out on the floor Tris”
  • “brad what the fuck why are you still in the tub you’ve been in there for three hours”
  • “whose turn is it to go grocery shopping? james? if you come back with fucking protein bread again i’m kicking you out”
  • “tris did you do the laundry this week? all the whites are stained with animal print? hOW???!!!”
  • “are you fucking kidding me no i’m not sharing my hairspray with you”
  • “none of you have any more clean underwear”
  • “connor what have i said about bearded dragons in the bathroom”
  • “who the fuck bought the deluxe version of the lion king?”
  • “no james i don’t want to go to the gym”
  • “oh my god tradley”
  • “tris if you sing one mORE LINE OF THE LION KING—”
  • “for the love of all that is good and holy it’s 2am connor i am not getting out of bed to play hide-and-seek with you and rex”
  • “brad can you please button your shirt up like a functioning member of society”
  • “james did you bookmark a cutekittens site on my laptop”
  • “are you seriously injured again connor we’ve run out of bandaids”
  • “james can you please put on a goddamn shirt MY GRANDMA IS VISITING IN AN HOUR”
  • “get out of my room good lord take your cat videos somewhere else james”
  • “oh my god brad now all the hot water’s gone you inconsiderate asshole”
  • “connor please take that kilt off you’re going to trip and fall and we’ve already been to the emergency room once this week let’s try not to repeat it”
  • “oh for fuck’s sake guys please put on some clothes— NO NOT YOUR ONESIES”

I was thinking today about whether or not the Doctor would reflect on how his previous incarnations would have interacted with Rose.  Have a few headcanons:

  • Susan would have adored Rose from the start, and One would have let her on the TARDIS with much grumping.  When he finds that Rose is hard to impress, though, he gets more and more showy with his piloting.  Rose makes fun of him for losing things a lot.  He finally manages to impress her with the best cocoa she’s ever tasted.  She insists on a mug every night and he catches her and his granddaughter researching Aztec courtship rituals.
  • I imagine Two would get rather tipsy on Romulan Ale at some point, and skip in a circle around her playing “Ring around the Rosie” on his recorder while wearing one of Jamie’s kilts.  He thinks he’s terribly clever until he trips over Jamie, storming into the console room with a towel around his waist demanding his clothes back.  Jamie mentions that he doesn’t usually wear pants and Rose comments that she doesn’t either, causing Two to sputter.
  • Three would be charming as fuck.  Bowing and formal gloves and dress parties and fancy capes.  Jackie adores him.  She tells Rose he’s “quite a bit different than your usual.  I like his nose.”

(More later.)

Alright, so I posted a couple of anon messages on sherrigamblin’s blog and then it was suggested that I might start one of my own and maybe answer some questions based on my background in the entertainment field.  So I made this blog.  Now what I know is based on first hand and second hand knowledge, and most of my experiences happened a number of years ago. But things haven’t changed that much. So if I’m incorrect, please let me know.

A little bit about me so you know what my background is in the entertainment field.  A few of my family members have been involved in the entertainment industry. I worked for a little over 3 years in a talent agency several years ago in the voiceover department of a commercial talent agency in NYC.  It was (and probably still is) one of the top commercial agencies in the US.  I was well respected and my clients trusted me completely. And by my clients, I mean the company’s clients. As a commercial agency, we represented actors for work in commercials and industrials and my focus was voice over work (commercials, movie trailers, industrials etc).  However, we did some work in legit and tv/movies.  The kids department worked in all areas.

 I loved my job and was real good at it but looking back I definitely burnt out. The main reason I left – I gotta say it – actors are crazy.  Granted not all but there are some messed up people in that industry and maybe that’s why they do it and why they’re good at it.  I think there was only one actor that I dealt with that I can honestly say was well grounded and secure with who he is as a person. But many of them were insecure, needy, whiney people. Of course most were not like this, but it’s the difficult ones that stay with you. 

 I would do the work again in a second but only if I got to pick my own clients.  One thing I learned is how fake people can be.  How they “turn on” depending on where they are and what they’re doing.  It’s not a fun way to be.  I don’t like BS and I don’t like “fakeness” which is one reason I didn’t go to LA.  Someone once told me that in LA, it’s always “what can you do for me” never “what can I do for you.” Everyone seemed to be in the “business.”

So I left.  I still love commercials.  I always listen for my old clients.  A few of them have gone on to really great careers. I have to say, it’s amazing to see someone’s career grow and horrible to see it on the decline.

 After that, I went backpacking in Europe for a few months. My next job was for a major publication where I dealt with copyright and permissions for the magazine and website.  Then I relocated and I’m now in a different field completely.  I really want to move back to NY though.  I miss it a lot.

 So Outlander.  I started watching when the first episode aired for free. And the only reason I watched it was to see how Scotland was presented. I love Scotland. I’ve loved it since I was a little girl if for no other reason than my grandmother getting me a kilt when I was a child when she took a trip around the world (I still have the kilt).  I’ve been there 8 times and I’m hoping to go again this year.  Needless to say I was hooked on the show.

 Now shipping….. I’ve never shipped (until now).  I think I avoided shipping because of the work I had done in the past.  But I definitely see something special with Sam and Cait and would love it if they are together.  I’m probably 85% convinced they are together.  They made me change my mind about shipping!

So we’ll see how I do with this account. And I’ll try to participate and learn a bit more on how to use tumblr.  I’m going to allow anon comments because I’ve often sent anonymous questions so I don’t want to be too big a hypocrite. We’ll see how that goes though.  I’m not sure how I will react to criticism from people I don’t know on a blog.  Makes me nervous!  But I won’t hide from it (at least that’s the plan).  And the reason I’m anticipating criticism is that I see it on other blogs I like and it’s not pretty

Yes, Super-Shippers, Let Sam and Cait Speak for Themselves

This was posted to CompuServ by a sock account:

nobodysbusiness13 said: “I really wish people associated with the show would stop speaking about Sam and Cait’s private relationship whatever it is. They are grown adults who can handle themselves capably as we have all seen. Most people can separate them from Jamie and Claire. If people can’t, that is their issue and no amount of other’s berating them is going to change that. Let Sam and Cait speak for themselves and stop trying to tell others how to enjoy the show.”  [emphasis added]

Yes, super-shippers, let Sam and Cait speak for themselves. They have numerous times. Stop misreading their body language and looking for “hand sex” and spreading rumors that they and everyone they are close to who has spoken up about them is lying.


You don’t know them. You have no right to speak for them–or to spread false rumors about them.  So please listen to your own advice.

source:  outlander-starz

NOTE: This is just may opinion as a fan, nothing more. If you disagree, please do so respectfully.

ADDENDUM:  Another example of a couple of super-shippers completely ignoring Sam and Cait’s wordsr:

“So utterly, glaringly, staring you in the face, with a great big sign with the words ‘CAIT AND SAM HAVE SEX REGULARLY’, obvious that they are a couple from that ‘double entendre’ use of the word ‘bottom’ and Cait’s licking of her lips and Sam’s look at her, Cait’s eye contact back at Sam and then Cait’s not so subtle tilt of the head and Sam’s side eye and knowing look with smirk smile at the camera. Seriously, how could any doubt there is anyone other than Cait and Sam for Cait and Sam?????????????”

Irish lass:. “^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^”

“So utterly, glaringly, staring you in the face” THAT THEY AREN’T A COUPLE–that they are two actors–who know how to turn on the charm when they are selling the show.  Do you realize your arguments make no sense and are always wrong? Sam didn’t book the Thailand trip for a honeymoon. The kilt was for a parade. Cait isn’t pregnant. Why on earth do you think you know the first thing about these people?  You obviously don’t.